On Cuddling and the Effects of Alcohol
by WhoLockedAndProud
Summary: Sherlock goes out to buy milk one day, but when he returns sick, the detective roams the house in a crazed state, starkers. Will John catch him? T because he's naked. Fluff aplenty.
1. Chapter 1

On cuddling and the effects of Alcohol

(Also, the absence of milk and a tipsy consulting detective)

*disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, the show, nor Benedict Cumberbatch, or the delightfully cuddly Martin Freeman. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC do.

JohnLock fluff aplenty.

Sherlock was contemplating the glass of burgundy wine. _What a peculiar word, burgundy. _He already partook in the novelty act of drinking and small talk, though small talk for him was insulting a person every time they said something, so he decided to sit out and pretend to listen while composing a piece in his mind palace. The man shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a sofa cushion pressed uncomfortably into the side of his neck. Sherlock, the ever awkward sociopath, was tired of John's little get- together. As much as he liked to observe the interactions of humans under the effect of alcohol, this was becoming rather…boring.

"John."

This went unnoticed or ignored in the midst of murmurs and soft giggles from an amusing joke someone had told- most likely from Lestrade, who was surprisingly entertaining while tipsy.

"John."

"Jaaaawwwwn. John. Johnny. Johnjohnjohn. JOHN. Watson. John Watson. Johnny Wat-"

"WHAT, SHERLOCK?!"

The man in question blinked, mildly startled at the sudden outburst. He ran a hand that was not hindered by a glass of the foul liquid through his curly hair. Really, who would drink this stuff and call it good? If he wanted to get drunk, it would be on something sweet and VERY strong. Why was Jo-

"Sherlock! What did you want? Really, if you needed my attention, would it be so hard to at least tell me what you wanted before zoning out?"

"_Cuddles_, John. I want cuddles. It's lonely and cold with nobody sitting by me, and it's awfully large and empty here on the sofa."

John Watson stared at this strange request. Even after being his flatmate for several months, Sherlock still managed to surprise him. It couldn't hurt, though. John stood, leaving the circle that was composed of Molly, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. The three watched him make his way around stacks of books, paper, a skull, and five open packages of raspberry flavored Jammy Dodgers before sinking down beside Sherlock. Sherlock shot an evil glare at them, although in his slightly drunk, disheveled state, he only managed a bleary glance that was comparable to that of a sleepy puppy. The audience turned back to their conversation, leaving John and Sherlock alone to…cuddle. And cuddle, they did. Sherlock scooted his manly behind closer to John, and pulled his upper torso flush to his, the hated glass of wine balanced precariously on the arm of their couch. The taller man maneuvered his body in such a way that he could rest his cheek on John's shoulder. John sighed, and let it be, listening to the drone of conversation while Sherlock nodded away. _He was cuddly, he noticed. Very muscular and solid, from his days in the army, but pleasantly pliant. Watson was like a bear. Albeit a short, blond and graying bear. No, not a bear. A hedgehog, but without the prickles. Yes, His dearest friend was a hedgehog. _Sherlock squirmed, and fell asleep with the tickling sensation of the vibrations coming from Watson's chest.

The morning came, with pale, watery sunlight the colour of vanilla pudding streaming in through the windows. Sherlock blinked in the evil light that just _wouldn't_ let him sleep. How annoying. He whimpered a bit, and pulled the blanket over his face, cloaking his pale eyes and those ridiculously sharp cheekbones.

Then the smell of buttered toast and tea came floating from the kitchen. The scent grew stronger, and after twelve and a half seconds, a platter and mug came to rest on the tower of books in front of his face.

"Sherlock, breakfast. "

"Is the toast-"

"-browned on one side, bottom and side crusts cut off, and dabbed with butter in the center? Yes. I've also taken the liberty of adding four sugars to your tea, although why you would drink that sweet monstrosity is beyond me. You're _welcome_."

"…"

The cuddly hedgehog sighed, and left the room, presumably to read a book, noted the detective. He stuffed his face, gulped down his very English beverage, and yelled: "Jawwwwnnn! We've run out of milk! Would you mind going out to pick some up? I need it for my experiments!"

"Do it yourself, you great lump! It's your turn to pick up the groceries and do the laundry and wash the dishes and pay the bills!"

The Sherlock sized lump wiggled, then stilled under the blanket. After two hours, sixteen minutes, and three seconds, he rose from his makeshift bed, like a beautiful phantom from beyond the grave, all white and glaring and dramatic. Mumbling murderously, he threw off the blanket in attempt to look impressive, but it tangled around his arm with a vengeance, throwing his plan off course. He hissed in annoyance and fumbled awkwardly with the cloth, in a way that juxtaposed strangely with his usual normal grace, before it slid off lifelessly and landed with a _thump_. Sherlock looked down with a proud smirk. Then he sighed, rolled his eyes, and gave a soft _hrumph _of unhappiness.

"Jaaawn, I'm BORED!"

"Go pick up the milk, then!"

"That's DULL! Why would I do something so unnecessarily _mundane_ when I have the potential for SO MUCH MORE?!"

"FOR GOD'S SAKES, SHERLOCK! IT'S YOUR TURN TO GET THE MILK, AND YOU ARE _NOT_ BACKING OUT!"

A growl of disdain rumbled from his throat.

"SO HELP ME, I WILL REVOKE YOUR CUDDLING PRIVILEGES IF YOU DON'T DO WHAT I SAY!"

_That_ made an impact on Sherlock's impressive brain. He grabbed his phone, wallet (rifling through it to make sure he had money), and his keys, slamming the door behind him.

At the supermarket, he was attacked with the sights and sounds of _humans_, boring _humans_, going about their boring little lives with their boring little tasks. How he pitied the stupid things. Squinting in the fluorescent lights, he nudged through the crowd. Noticing several people holding baskets, he made his way to a stack of identical containers. Then his eyes drifted to the line of neatly parked trolleys, with their handles and small fold out seats for toddlers. _Finally,_ something interesting, if only mildly so. Sherlock grinned, a fittingly predatory look.

Sherlock was kicked out of the supermarket eighteen minutes later, with a plastic bag containing a jug of milk, chocolate chips, and women's hygiene products, banned from going there ever again.

The door banged open, and John could hear the rustle of grocery bags.

"I'm banned from entering their store, John! _Banned! _I've done nothing wrong! There's nothing in the law about riding carts down aisles, or opening tampon packages to test their absorbency, or-"

This rant was cut off when he tripped over a severed foot, toes in various stages of decay.

The stomping grew louder as Sherlock tromped up the stairs, groceries neatly tucked in the kitchen.

He emerged, an unnaturally pink hue on his face, covered with a light sheen of sweat and dark curls plastered to his brow.

Watson stared.

Sherlock stared back.

He croaked something that sounded a bit like '_The_ _banana king is dead. Long live the cupcake queen,' _before collapsing into a heap of long, long limbs, elbows and knees.

The healing part of the army doctor kicked in, overtaking the small evil part that was cackling gleefully and wishing he'd filmed that spectacular- right, back to the work at hand. He crouched by the prone body, and pressed one hand to the other man's face. It was too warm. He silently cursed Sherlock for not wearing a coat in this too- bloody- cold- for- numbers weather.

After some time, and less effort than was expected(this was probably due to the fact that Sherlock rarely ate, and instead lived off of strong tea and nicotine patches), Sherlock was draped over the good doctor's bed, moaning feverishly, with a cold cloth over his hot brow and a thin blanket covering everything below his neck. And oh, yeah, he was naked with the exception of underpants, which John had to put on for him because Sherlock often went commando (mainly because he says that he couldn't find a suitably comfortable pair).

A fever. John looked at the thermometer. A fever of thirty-bloody-nine degrees. What the absolute _hell_.

He returned to the room, expecting to see a peaceful, sleeping Sherlock. He should have known better. The bed was empty, blankets lying at the foot and the cloth tossed disdainfully onto a lamp.

And a pair of red pants waving cheerily from the top of a bookcase.

Holmes the younger was probably roaming the house, delirious and feverish.

And naked.

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	2. Chapter 2

Roaming the House In a State Of Undress

(or, Ten Reasons Why Chocolate Is Useful When Chasing Sherlock Holmes)

After much yelling from John for Sherlock to _get back in his room right now or he swears he will have no cuddles for a week, _the missing detective was still…missing.

So he had to use his last resort.

Chocolate.

After moving in with Sherlock and discovering his addiction to sugar, caffeine, and adrenaline (as well as danger, gore, and nicotine), John got him thoroughly hooked on chocolate. He knew he would need it for bribery in instances such as this, which was why he had several blocks and bars of the stuff stashed around their home.

1)John was stirring a pot of hot chocolate. It _was_ a chilly day, after all, and this was a good way to get the scent of chocolate spread through the flat. He added a pinch of cinnamon, a dash more milk, and turned off the heat. The cook turned his back to rummage about for clean mugs and the marshmallows _god, he loved those squishy little things_, and whirled around when he heard a soft _slurp_ and a _thunk_ and the now empty pot landed on the stove. He met the bloodshot eyes of an insane, naked Sherlock. His mouth dropped open, and he was frozen to the spot.

He stared at the ill man.

Sherlock stared back.

Then with a roguish wink and a mad grin, the naked figure scurried away with a wild cackle. So much for _that_ plan.

2) He wasn't one for baking, but, hey, it couldn't be that hard. As long as he followed instructions, his cookies might turn out just fine. After borrowing several ingredients from Mrs. Hudson, John began.

A ding from the timer alerted him to the now finished cookies. He peeked in, and through the glass, could view a dozen perfect chocolate chip cookies, soft, golden brown, melty chocolate chip cookies. He salivated, just a little, and waited a bit before taking them out with a hot pink towel (monogrammed in gold thread, with the initials M. H.) folded double so as to not burn his hands. Balancing them on a corner of the sink, John wiped his wet hands on his apron(also hot pink, with a border of pursed lips and the words _kiss the cook_). The treats were tipped unceremoniously onto a plate, and were left to rest on center stage(the very conspicuous pile of paper on the table). John hid behind a conveniently placed wall of books, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

As John started to snore, Sherlock crept to the cookies, mashed them into his mouth with a crazed look in his eye, and crept away, quiet as a mime.

John woke with a snort and a start, and his eyes alighted upon the empty plate. He sighed, and went to clean up for bed. He would try again tomorrow.

A sight greeted his tired face in the mirror. Smeared all over his forehead were fingerprints of chocolate(although he wasn't quite sure it was chocolate, he thought nervously, but preferred to keep it that way. Ignorance was bliss, after all) and a moustache of blue ink.

He cursed colourfully, with several detailed phrases picked up at the pub, and even a few in other languages(he doesn't remember how he knew curses in Mandarin or Spanish, but does know that the experiences involve quite a lot of alcohol).

John sank into his covers, recuperating for the daunting task of capturing Sherlock Holmes, madman extraordinaire.

3) John woke with the scent of chocolate in his nostrils, sunlight in his half- lidded eyes, and a sleeping Sherlock(still naked, bless him) curled on top of his blanketed form like a cat. Like a sinuous, glorious, insane cat, who was gazing into his eyes, still with that odd look in his pupils.

Munching on a bar of top quality chocolate.

Munching on _John's_ bar of top quality chocolate.

Which was supposed to be his super secret emergency stash.

Which was supposed to be tucked deeply in his underwear drawer (now spilled in a rainbow of whites and greys and blues and a surprising pair of red across the floor).

He sighed, and flipped over, his arms forming a cage around Sherlock's shoulders, and his knees on either side of his thighs. Sherlock grinned, finished the candy, slid down, and out of the room in two seconds flat.

He was going to _murder _him, and with no consulting detective around, John was sure he wouldn't be suspected of killing his best friend.

4) John was sitting in bed. He had a dozen pillows fluffed up behind him, a woolen knitted hat in various shades of gaudy orange with a puff on top, clean grey footie jammies on, and a pair of striped pink socks (stolen from Mycroft's sock drawer. The man had silk socks, for goodness' sakes, and all perfectly organized by colour and thread count! _THREAD COUNT!_). A thick mystery novel was resting on his lap (he wanted to see if he learned anything living with Sherlock for so long) while he awaited Holmes the Younger's arrival. Every few moments, John would put his hand in a bowl of chocolate chips and plop one on his waiting tongue.

His plan went thusly:

By turning up the heat to swelteringly warm, the too hot(in more ways than one) Sherlock would drift to John's room, where the heat was off, to escape the warmth. Sherlock would go to all the rooms to find a cool place, and as Mrs. Hudson was out for the week visiting her sister, he would be the only person subject to the detective's naked glory. Sherlock would see the chocolate, approach, and John would wrestle him down and subdue him with a pair of (fur lined) handcuffs. Then he would administer the treatment, keep watch over him until his fever broke, and everything would go back to normal.

He should have known it wouldn't be so easy.

Sherlock arrived an hour later, striding with a purpose across the room.

Still naked.

He eyed the chocolate, and then threw his body into a corner, in a pile of (clean) discarded clothing.

There, he watched John silently, while John prayed- _please, god, I've done nothing wrong- I'm keeping Sherlock away from the rest of the world; don't let him be up to anything-_ and pretended to not notice the dark shape in the corner.

After another hour where John started to forget the predator in waiting (though his eyes flickered to the corner occasionally), the shape suddenly sprang at the doctor. Taken by surprise, and overpowered by a fever ridden otter, who found the fur lined handcuffs, cuffed him to the bedpost, and sat just out of his reach with the bowl, popping a chocolate chip into his mouth every so often, just staring.

The doctor sighed.

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	3. Chapter 3

How Sherlock Resembles a Marshmallow

(or, the Cocoa Catastrophe)

5) Watson realized he couldn't really lie comfortably while one arm was stretched in such an uncomfortable way. The handcuffs were surprisingly strong. Sherlock had already taken his leave, donning just John's hat and nothing more.

Still naked.

John managed to reach his nightstand with his free arm, scrabbling for the keys, and, grasping the cold metal in his hands, freed himself. This was getting tiring.

He laid several chocolate chips in a line, leading into a room where he could lock them both in and finally treat Sherlock. John sat and waited.

Sherlock was sniffing the air like a dog. He stiffened and crouched as the lone bit of chocolate entered his sight. Going towards it, he snatched it up and ate it. He continued following the trail of chocolate chips…

John could hear a shuffling coming up the hall. He peered around the corner and saw Sherlock's curly mop of hair approaching.

Sherlock reached the doorway, chocolate stained mouth widening as he found the last piece.

John prepared himself to pounce.

Sherlock's instincts told him something was amiss, and just as John lunged, he gracefully dodged it and scurried away.

With the chocolate.

6) It was only the second day of Sherlock's illness, and his 'catch Sherlock using chocolate' plan, and the doctor was already weary of this cat and mouse chase. He was having fun, though, putting his skills to work devising plans for Sherlock's capture.

John decided he should have a treat for his hard work, and went to find some ice cream. After shifting a box of eyeballs (assorted colours), a head, and several severed fingers out of the way, he came upon his beloved carton of chocolate ice cream.

Making sinful noises, John attacked the delicacy with gusto, spooning the stuff into his mouth eagerly. A dish of the treat was lying on the floor, with a gigantic crate (large enough to contain an ill Sherlock) tilted above it, ready to drop.

Curious, the consulting detective wandered into the kitchen, with John's fluffy hat perched jauntily on his dark hair. He slid over to the dish slowly, as John kept eating and pretending not to notice the movement. With a loud clatter, the crated fell on a bewildered Sherlock.

John laughed aloud.

"HAHAH! FINALLY! I've got you now!"

Sherlock threw off the crate and ran away.

John wept into his melting chocolate ice cream.

7) After a good cry, Watson was resolved. He would try his damned hardest to catch Sherlock.

He found Sherlock, sleeping impossibly, leaning against a wall while standing. He must have gorged his pretty little self on too much chocolate, and after the sugar rush faded, drifted off to sleep.

John carried Sherlock carefully to his bed, his legs hanging over one arm while the other supported his back. Sherlock didn't so much as twitch through all these proceedings. Now that he was unconscious, the Doctor was back, and in full force. He fed Sherlock some medicine, put on his pants, removed the hat, and tucked him in with a pat on his head and a kiss on the cheek.

8) The next day found Sherlock healthy and not insane. He could sit up in bed, but couldn't speak. All the poor man could manage was a miserable squeak and wheeze. He was swaddled completely in a thick white blanket, like an infant, unable to move.

John thought this was a fitting punishment.

He coaxed Sherlock into opening his mouth (bearing an uncanny resemblance to a baby bird waiting for a feeding) and accepting the medicine…with a chunk of chocolate.

He sat by the bed and read aloud from the encyclopedia (Sherlock's favorite book; he found it hilarious, and would squeak weakly at any mistakes he noticed).

At night, John would crawl into bed with the recuperating detective, wearing his footie pajamas, and they fell asleep, curled into one another.

9) After a week of bedrest, much chocolate, and a lot of patience, Sherlock was fit to walk and talk again, though he used his momentary weakness to guilt John into doing things for him.

John, knowing what Sherlock was doing, went along with it anyway, and would feed him as he screeched away on his violin. (this was an instance where John could use Sherlock's addiction to his advantage, and would withhold the sweets until he stopped playing and _sit down right now or I will take your phone and throw it out to window-don't think I won't, Sherlock!)_

He would often muse to himself, reading peacefully by the fireplace and chomping away on his Jammy Dodgers while Sherlock licked at a chocolate lollipop that _this is really useful, and maybe I should film him being obedient like a dog-_

"John, please don't. I'll ruin your favorite jumper."

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	4. Chapter 4

a Chocolate Kiss

(The End)

(or is it?)

10) No matter how ungrateful Sherlock seemed to be, he did think Watson was a very useful and caring man, solid, dependable, _too much of a do-gooder, womanizer,easy to guilt-_

But he did. He cared for the dear man.

"Jaaawn."

"What, Sherlock?"

"Hand me that bit of chocolate, over there."

"What, here?"

"_No, _John. The one underneath that painting of Mycroft and Lestrade frolicking naked into the sunset. Of course that one! Give it here."

"Oh, and what make you think I will?"

"John, remove that chocolate from your hand and place it in mine."

"What?"

"John, please?"

"Nope." _pops chocolate into mouth and chews, satisfied._

_Sherlock narrows his eyes._

"_Jaaawn."_

"_Shirleeeey"_

"Shut up."

The sight of the chocolate in a corner of John's mouth winks and beckons to Sherlock. He leans in, and _kisses_ John.

Full on the mouth.

John sits, stunned, as he follows Sherlock with his eyes.

Sherlock smiles, a mischievous shine in his pale, pale irises, and then whirls out of the room, elegantly stroking away on his violin in what could only be described as a cheery tune.

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